I like to keep my issues drawn...

In which I do some serious battle with iMovie in order to bring you what my computer considers to be my most complicated video yet.  Wuph.

Have I lost my love on the wings I've found?

[Title Explanation Here]

I like to think of myself as strictly a not-heretic, but I have to admit that I have some heretical tendencies.  I remember when I was a kid learning the 10 commandments, I thought there was a sort of hierarchy of easiness.  My thought process looked something like this:

1st Easiest #6 - Do not murder.  
This one's kind of obvious.  I don't think it's possible to accidentally murder anyone, and I figure I'll never want to do it, so there we go.  Commandment in the bag.

2nd Easiest #7 - Do not commit adultery.  
I think very rarely about any future marriage I might have, and even more rarely about sex, so I'll just skip over this one.  Anyway, I figure no one my age could ever break this commandment, so again, in the bag.

Tied in 3rd #1 and #2 - No God but God and No revered images
Duh?  How many other gods are there?  And what sort of image are we talking here? Like that calf that Aaron, like, welded together?  Between my lack of artistic ability and my lack of desire to pray to a cow, I think I'm ok.

Fifth Easiest #5 - Honoring mom and dad
I love my parents.  Done and done. 

Okay, getting challenging #8 - No stealing
I already broke this once at a friend's birthday party when I really wanted a tiny toy dog they had.  But, hey, it was just a little dog, and I'll never do it again.

Fourth Hardest #10 - No coveting
Okay, my neighbor's wife is safe, but that tiny dog was coveted right out of its dollhouse soo...but again, just a dog, and I'll never do it again.

Third Hardest #3 - Don't take the Lord's name in vain
I'm pretty sure I can keep from saying "Oh my God," but peer pressure is a real thing.  We'll see how long this lasts.

Second Hardest #4 - Keep the Sabbath holy
What does this even mean?

This is my holy struggle #9 - No false witness
There was the time I stole the dog and had to come up with a lie to cover it up.  Then there was the time that that lie worked so well I realized I was good at it and then kept doing it, and then convinced (but really, did I?) my entire first-grade class that I was an alien.  Then there was the time that I really wanted the forbidden M&Ms so I told my mom that Dennis had eaten them.  And then there was the time I told my brother I'd eaten the horrid milkshake he'd made me even though I'd asked him not to, when really I'd poured it into his cup (he didn't fall for it, by the way).  And I want to be a writer, does that mean I can only write boring non-fiction stuff about animals and members of Congress?  God, I don't think I can do this.  I just don't think I'm cut out to be your servant.  I'm going to be confessing this sin every couple of minutes; I hope you're prepared.

After a few years of deep meditation on scripture (or, you know, just actually reading them once) I know I got a few things wrong about how the Big 10 actually apply to everyday life.  But it wasn't until I got deep into moving into my new apartment that I realized where my biggest struggles really lie.

Maybe this shouldn't have come as such a shock to me, seeing as I did major in English Language and Literature in college, but as I unpacked my kitchenware, I was surprised by how much heavy and intentional symbolism I found there.

I've got Game of Thrones pint and shot glasses, Marvel Comics tumblers, mugs from London, Calvin's Festival of Faith and Writing, my semester as a student teacher, and even the academic database, JSTOR.  I have plastic cups, bowls, and plates from my college dining hall.

A Song of Ice and Tea

It's not like I accidentally collected all of these items from places, things, and events that have meant a lot to me: I collected them because they came from these meaningful places.  When I look at them, I don't just see kitchenware.  I see all the time I spent enjoying the worlds they come from.  When people give me gifts, especially if they're gifts I see or use all the time, I see the giver when I see the gift.

So all that graven image business with the calf and the goldsmithing that went down without God's approval...looking at my kitchen, that all makes a lot more sense.  I know that, personally, I feel more connected to places and people when I have related stuff around me.  And I have some cross necklaces given to me as gifts that I used to feel the need to wear every day because I felt, in some weird way, like I was wearing my faith.

But if I can see it, if I can touch it, it's not faith; it's knowledge.  And if I can see it and touch it, then it was created and therefor is not the creator and doesn't deserve my faith or worship. According to 2 Corinthians 5:7, "we [Christians] walk by faith, not by sight."

In Knowing God, which my church group is reading together right now, Packer talks for at least a whole chapter about graven images.  He says basically everything I said here, about how they don't lead to faith or to correct worship, but lead us to worship the creation in place of the creator.  I'm not sure that I agree completely with that line of thinking.  I think it might be one of those slippery slope conundrums, but I think you can use images and symbols of God to supplement correct worship without crossing over into worshiping the images and symbols themselves.

My shrine to Michigan Microbrews, created when I moved to Pittsburgh.
...and gradually dismantled afterwards

Jesus says to Thomas in John 20:29, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.”  Thomas believed Jesus was the messiah...but he only believed because he could see.  If we can only feel close to God through cross necklaces, rosary beads, and little tokens that we have come to associate with him, I think we are missing out on the great experience that is the true closeness of faith.

I don't know that I know what that true closeness feels like, but I bet it feels better than a tarnished silver cross worn begrudgingly day after day.

Just a heads up!

For those who are interested, I posted a blog post over here today.  It's about community in the age of the internet.

The blog itself is pretty cool and I suggest you check it out.  I write a post here every month on the 19th.

And I'm Back in the Game

Sorry for the long absence!  Here's a quick explanation and a plan for moving things to infinity and beyond...

Twitter:
https://twitter.com/pksdancinggirl

Tumblr:
holyquotablesbatman.tumblr.com

Also, 5,000 monkey points to the person who can correctly guess the pop-culture source of the title of this video

Where am I from?

I was recently on an airplane, traveling from my parents’ house in the Chicago area to visit my boyfriend who has an internship with a large computer-y company in California.  I’ve never flown alone before, so right up until I boarded the plane I was on edge about something going wrong.  But as soon as that seatbelt sign came on, I felt that weird dry lump in my throat dissipate and I suddenly felt much more extroverted than I really am.  I had a similar experience during my first week of college.

The girl sitting next to me was young, maybe 11.  Too young to sit up with her father in the emergency-exit row in front of us, so she had switched seats with the Navy-boot-camp graduate.  I asked her if she had ever flown before, and though she hesitated before saying yes, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a lie, since her enthusiasm during takeoff and landing was tragically lower than it should have been for someone of her age.  As we were taxiing to the runway, I noticed out my window the silhouette of the Chicago skyline, and, being a history teacher at heart, I wanted to make sure she saw it if she was interested.

“Are you from Chicago?” I asked.

“No, I’m from California.”

“Oh, so you’re going home?  That’s nice.”

Before I could point out the Sears and the John Hancock to her, she asked, “Where are you from?”

“Pittsburgh,” I said, without much thought.  That came later.

A few seconds passed and then the skyline was in clear view from her angle.  I pointed it out and she was clearly unimpressed, and I got a sudden pang of the kids-these-days syndrome I’d seen strike so many other, much older people.  I brushed it away, remembering that, when I was 11, I would have been more interested in playing Super Mario on my DS than in looking at the far off, foggy figure of some buildings in an unfamiliar city—that is, if I had had a Nintendo DS and had spent much time in unfamiliar cities.

If you're looking for Lake Michican, don't hurt yourself in the effort.
This is not Chicago.

That was when the thought struck me.  Was I really from Pittsburgh?  Had I just lied to this prepubescent gamer?  Granted, she wouldn’t notice if I had, but the question still bugged me.  I’d spent only about a total of 2.5 weeks in Pittsburgh in my whole life, and during one of those, I was practically hermited in my subleased apartment.  I wouldn’t recognize the Pittsburgh skyline if it wore a “Hello, my name is” sticker and politely introduced itself.  I didn’t back the Penguins for the Stanley cup.  I needed the Automated Annie on my phone to get me to the nearest Aldi.  No one would accept that I was from Pittsburgh if they pushed me to defend myself.

So, the next likeliest place for me to call home base would be Chicago.  I know my way around—the highway system, at least—I cheered on the Bulls back in the nineties and I have strongly considered buying a Blackhawks celebratory t-shirt (which, if you know how much sports paraphernalia I own, you’ll know is a big deal for me).  My cell phone has a Chicago area code.  The skyline and lakeshore still feel like home when I see them, and when someone says, “Let’s go to Navy Pier,” I flinch reflexively.

But I’ve been in the Chicago area for over a month now, and though I’ve eaten about seven Chicago-style hot dogs in that time, I’ve been living out of a suitcase and telling my family about how my move has been going.  I was born here, I took field trips to all the museums, did school projects on Fort Dearborn and the Great Chicago Fire, and went downtown countless times with my father to take-your-daughter-to-work day, but those were all decidedly past-tense events in my life.

How do we measure our connection to a place?  Is it the existence of memories enjoyed there or the way those memories work together to represent who we are?  And if it is the latter, how can we even know in this life where we are “from”?  Can we—limited as human understanding of the longue-durée of our own lives is—see in any detail the ways in which a place has shaped us?

If I were to guess, I’d have to say that Grand Rapids, Michigan has really been the most formative city in my past.  I came of age there, came into my faith, my political efficacy, my social and cultural understanding of myself and the world around me, and my concept of a vocation and the first questions I asked of what mine might be.  I’ve done token-Grand-Rapids things, been token-Grand-Rapids places, and dreamed idly of what a long-term life there might look for me, but when I went back a month after graduating to attend the visitation and funeral of a beloved professor of mine, it did not feel like my city anymore.

Truth is, neither do Chicago or Pittsburgh.  I feel like I don’t have a “my city,” which, to me, makes it feel a lot like I don’t have a home.

This realization could be sad, lonely, even frightening especially for someone whose strength-finder results said her number-one strength was connection.  And in fact, my life has been more than the usual amount of sad, lonely, and frightening lately, so it would be natural to let this realization—made while munching a Tapas airplane snack that I paid too much for—sink in with all the rest.

Most of what I own.  Stored in a Uhaul in Pennsylvania

But back in January, somewhere around the time everyone else was making resolutions to get in shape or to reconnect with lost friends, I was singing along with John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats, proclaiming “I’m gonna make it through this year if it kills me.”  And since the siege by lucky number 2013 is clearly underway, my best defense is to look at this homelessness, this disconnection, as an opportunity I’ve never had before.  For the first time in my life, I am no longer in school, and I am also not yet employed.  I am renting an apartment to which I possess no keys and I have the lion’s share of my childhood packed away in boxes in my Prius.  For once, I am as indefinable—by most Western social standards, anyway—as I ever have been and perhaps ever will be again.  I am not alone; I have the whole world as my home and all of its citizens as my company.  While I make my way though this rocky period, I am doing just that.  Making my way.  I am as connected as I choose to be to all the places, people, and experiences around me.  What more could my strength-finder ask for?

“Where are you from?” asked the little girl, maybe out of politeness or habit.

What I should have said was, “You know what, I don’t know.  Let’s find out, shall we?”